


The Sweeter Than Honey Affair

by kronette



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 12:56:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 'festivities' night and Napoleon is having some trouble controlling Illya.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sweeter Than Honey Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written December 1999 under my other pseud, Shelley Wright - I'd forgotten this was on File40 (http://file40.net/file40s.html).

“Napoleon, I do not know about this.”

“Relax, Illya.  Trust me.”

“Every time you utter those words,” Illya grumbled as he closed his eyes as his lover had requested.  He was supine in the middle of the bed, hands at his sides…waiting.  He listened to the soft pad of Napoleon’s feet crossing the carpet, then strained to hear where the older man had gone.  Obviously the kitchen, but not the refrigerator by the sounds of it.  He cracked his eyes open, but couldn’t see into the other room.  Cabinet, maybe?  What _was_ he looking for?  A drawer opened then shut, and Illya relaxed back against the bed as much as he could and closed his eyes again.  Anticipation twisted in his stomach, sweet and familiar. 

The bed dipped, signaling Napoleon’s return to the room.  “I trust I don’t have to use the handcuffs?” he asked with a hint of glee in his voice.

The corner of Illya’s mouth lifted slightly.  “No, thank you. I am fully capable of following orders.”

He caught some of Napoleon’s grumblings, “…Not that I’ve ever seen…insolent…”

“Just get on with it,” Illya added to the grumblings.  “I grow weary of waiting.”  He concentrated on identifying the sounds being made.  A jar being unscrewed, he was sure.  The lid being placed on the nightstand, then the jar.  The bed shifted, and Illya exhaled slowly, trying to rein in his emotions.  Every inch of skin, every sense was heightened, awaiting the touches he knew were coming, just not in what form.  It could be the light drag of nails down his sides…the hard press of teeth against his arched neck…the rough lap of a tongue across a defenseless nipple…the whisper of hot breath against his cock.   A surge of arousal almost caused him to groan aloud, but practice and training forced it back down.  Napoleon undoubtedly knew what his games did to him, but it would not do to have it known for fact. 

Belatedly, he realized that he hadn’t been touched at all.  But the heat of Napoleon’s gaze seared him, trailing down his naked body laid out like a feast of old.  It would do no good to order Napoleon to do something; experience had taught him that.  However, teasing had been proven to be a motivating factor.

“I grow bored, Napoleon.  If you’re not going to do something, perhaps I can find an interesting article to read.”  His words seemed to have no effect; the silence continued.  Then the bed dipped toward him, and he could feel the heat of his lover as Napoleon bent closer, hovering above him, his breathing just as labored as his own.  He sensed Napoleon lean closer, then the tip of Napoleon’s tongue dragged along his lower lip.  He opened his mouth to nip at it, only to find himself bereft of contact.  So, that was the game tonight.  Be touched, but don’t touch.  Then he was going to make sure he was _touched_.  He raked his own tongue slowly along his lower lip, humming lightly under his breath.  The tantalizing sound drew Napoleon’s hand to his chest, tracing light circles along its expanse. 

Not enough contact.  Illya arched his back slightly, twisting his hips until he brushed against Napoleon’s naked form.  He let forth a deliciously low moan, designed to drive Napoleon to action. 

He was rewarded--happily—with a mouthful of Napoleon’s tongue.  He sucked on the tongue, harder, his lips almost bruising in their pressure.  He pushed himself up off the mattress with the palms of his hands, only to find himself not-so gently shoved back down.

“My show,” a ragged-sounding Napoleon ordered.  “Your orders were to lie still.”

“I thought you wanted me to keep my eyes closed,” Illya retorted as he panted lightly. 

“Oh.”  Napoleon didn’t sound one bit contrite as his lips returned to Illya’s, outlining the curve of his lower lip before his tongue dipped back inside.  Soft sucking and gasped breath were the only sounds after that.  Napoleon took his time exploring his mouth, but the powerful grip on his shoulders belied Napoleon’s need.  Ache.  Want. 

His cock was demanding attention and Illya shifted restlessly on the bed, trying to come into contact with Napoleon.  But his too-clever partner had moved up the bed near his torso, so Illya resigned himself to waiting for Napoleon’s touch.  But it didn’t stop his hips from thrusting aimlessly into the air, nor did it stop the low groan that escaped his swollen lips. 

Napoleon broke away from him with a gasp.  Illya tried to follow, to continue contact with that torturous mouth, but was denied. 

“No.”

He strained against Napoleon’s grip, but a forearm across his throat halted his struggle.  “Napoleon!” he hissed angrily. 

“Not yet, Illya.  Not yet,” he was shushed. 

Illya’s eyes flashed open and he glared angrily up at his lover.  “ _Now_ , Solo.”

Napoleon held his head between his hands and planted feather-light kisses on his eyes, cheeks, chin and finally, lips.  “Shh, my love.  Patience.  I haven’t gotten to tonight’s festivities.” 

“To hell with festivities,” he growled as he tried to avoid Napoleon’s lips.  “I am ready _now_.” 

He was abruptly released, and the bed lurched as Napoleon walked away.  Illya sat up with a wince, stroking along his hardened cock once in sympathy.  They had both been abandoned.  It would serve the American right if he went ahead and finished himself off, then went right to sleep.  But in his heart he knew he couldn’t do that.  With a muted sigh, he got to his feet and went to his lover. 

He found Napoleon sitting on the couch, one leg tucked up to his chin, a glass dangling from his hand.  He took a shot of the drink – scotch by the looks of it - and studiously ignored him. 

Illya felt his heart sink at the stony features before him.  Napoleon’s jaw was set tighter than U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, and just as unyielding.  Eyes that would not meet his, but instead bored a hole in the carpet.   The whole body posture screamed ‘go away’.  However, such a small thing would not keep Illya away from his lover.  He walked straight up to Napoleon, stopped in front of him, and demanded, “What has gotten into you?” 

Icy silence was his answer.  The room took on a decidedly unfriendly atmosphere, and Illya felt the last of his arousal dissipate.  He took two steps to the left and settled next to Napoleon.  He reached out his hand to stroke Napoleon’s cheek, but his goal turned at the last minute, and he brushed his fingers through his lover’s hair instead. 

“Napol—Napasha,” Illya corrected himself softly.  “Look at me.” 

Slowly, those impossibly dark eyes turned to him.  “Happy?” Napoleon groused before he stood up and walked out of his reach.  

Illya slowly let out a breath.  “No, I am not.  Napoleon, what happened?  We were doing fine and then you stopped.” 

He watched from the couch as Napoleon rolled the edge of his glass along the tabletop.  “I stopped because we were going too fast.” 

“We weren’t going fast enough,” Illya counteracted. 

The glass slammed down on the table.  “Damnit, Illya, don’t you understand what I’m trying to do?” 

“Drive me insane?” he muttered under his breath.  Louder, he stated, “No, I don’t.  Please enlighten me.” 

Napoleon turned his back to him and replied softly, “You are always in such a rush.  You’re like a bomb ready to go off at any second.  You don’t have…you don’t seem to want to savor the moment.  I know you aren’t the seductive type, but I am.  I like the dinner and wine and dancing and anticipation at the end of the evening.  I guess…”

“You miss it,” Illya interrupted quietly.  He clenched his hands together, digging his nails into the backs of his hands.  His worse fear, that Napoleon would eventually grow tired of his hard lines and hard head and want the softness of a woman again, was happening right before his eyes.  He stood up, his vision blurry, and carefully made his way to the bedroom.  He fumbled for his clothes, stuffing his legs into his pants blindly. 

Napoleon’s choked voice rasped, “What are you doing?”

He pulled on his shirt, noticed it was inside out, and righted it angrily.  “What does it look like?  I know where I’m not needed anymore.”  The sleeve stuck and he threw the shirt aside in disgust.  “How could you do this?” 

“Do what?  You’re the one who’s…leaving.”  Napoleon stepped into the bedroom.  

Illya’s voice was barely above a whisper as he bent to get his socks.  “You’re tired of me.  You said so yourself.” 

“Tired!” blasted from Napoleon.  Illya found himself hauled to his feet and shaken.  “You hard-headed Russian, that’s not what I said at all!” 

Reacting instinctively, Illya twisted and tossed Napoleon to the carpet.  He stared dumbfounded down at his lover, unable to believe what he had just done.  Swallowing hard, he itched to offer his hand to help Napoleon up, but the older man was already on his feet.  Illya opened his mouth to apologize, but the words wouldn’t come.  He snapped his mouth shut and turned away.

Napoleon’s soft voice wafted over him.  “Illya, I never said I didn’t want you.  I  _do_ want you.  What I said was, I’m geared more toward seduction, and not just sex.  I like the anticipation leading up to it.  That sweet coil of suspense that hangs in your gut, just before you touch your lover. To stretch it out into almost agony – until it hurts.  But with you, the moment is over before I get to savor it.  I just wanted us to take our time, that’s all.  Test the limits of our patience before we get to the reward.” 

“You do not miss women?” he asked, giving voice to his secret fear.

Napoleon’s hands rested lightly on his shoulders, but did not force him around.  “I admit, I sometimes miss their softness and vulnerability.  But I found something different with you.  Not better; not worse.  I like your hard-headedness and your intelligence.  I like your sarcasm…I always have.  You are my partner in every sense of the word.  You keep me on my toes, Illya Kuryakin.” 

Illya felt the tenseness leaving his body as Napoleon’s breath whispered past his ear.  The tingling, melting feeling expanded as his lover’s lips began to suck and teeth began to nip at his earlobe.  Weak spot number one.  His lover knew it well.  He tried to form words to get Napoleon to stop, but his mouth was disconnected from his brain. 

“And I love your sweet little ass,” Napoleon murmured as one hand slid down to cup it. 

Illya’s skin tingled through his pants where Napoleon touched him, and his face was burning with embarrassment.  Napoleon released his ear in favor of his neck, and he was able to speak again.  “You do not wish me…softer?” he asked quietly. 

“Softer has its place,” Napoleon murmured.  One hand slipped around to the front of Illya’s pants, then dipped inside to caress his cock.  “And this is not the place.” 

“You do not wish me…vulnerable?” he nearly purred as he leaned back against his lover.  Napoleon’s tongue laved the skin of his neck, his teeth suddenly taking a sharp nip.  Illya hissed and his hand flew to Napoleon’s thigh, which he squeezed mercilessly. 

“Only in certain places,” was muttered against his neck. 

“Not weepy or faint of heart?”  His other hand joined Napoleon’s in stroking his cock, drawing it back into the game. 

“Never that,” was mumbled against the back of his neck.  Napoleon’s mouth continued down his back, nibbling and kissing along his shoulders.  A raspy tongue-tip outlined his spine, one vertebra at a time.  He arched his back, breath catching in his throat as Napoleon expertly drew his pants down to his ankles, fingertips tracing the same path.  He choked off a cry as Napoleon took a nip at one buttcheek. 

“Napoleon,” he warned faintly. 

“Just savoring…Illusha.” 

Illya’s eyes flew open and he nearly tripped at the tangle of pants around his ankles.  Napoleon’s strong hands held him upright as the older man shifted around to his front. 

Illya dragged his hand through Napoleon’s hair as the other man kissed up his leg, whispering, “naga,” against his skin, causing a shiver to run down his spine.  Weakness number two: Napoleon was learning Russian.  He was surprised at how quickly his lover picked up on certain…phrases. 

That hot mouth paused to mutter, “kalyena,” at his knee, then continued along his hipbone, up the front of his ribcage to lavish special attention to his hardened nipples.  Along his breastbone, Napoleon breathed, “syertse,” moving quickly up to his throat, where a soft, “gorla” and a nip to his skin had Illya gasping for air. 

He twisted his hand and tugged gently, indicating he wanted Napoleon to stand upright.  When his lover complied—after sucking at his collarbone—he pushed Napoleon against the wall. 

He let his eyes roam over his lover, taking in the solid muscle, the darkened skin, the naked arousal flaring from intense eyes, to the lips parted in expectation.  He lightly, slowly touched his lips to Napoleon’s, then mouthed down to the cleft in his chin.  He locked gazes with his lover as his mouth moved down Napoleon’s neck and breastbone, then detoured to flick his tongue over first one sensitized nipple, then the other.  He bent his knees as he raked his mouth across the quivering stomach muscles, his cheek brushing against Napoleon’s obvious arousal.  A fine sheen of sweat broke over his lover’s body, slickening the path of his hands along the backs of Napoleon’s thighs.  Illya rubbed his chin along the tip of Napoleon’s cock, then nearly lost his balance as Napoleon choked out, “Pazhaluysta.”

He quickly made his way back up Napoleon’s body, resting his hands lightly at his lover’s hips.  “I thought you wanted to teach me patience,” he asked, his voice a deep rumble. 

Napoleon’s hand caressed his shoulders as he kissed him softly.  “Patience is one thing; this is torture.  Bed, Illusha.” 

Illya slipped his hands behind Napoleon and curved them around his ass.  “Bed,” he agreed as he nipped playfully at the swollen lower lip. 

They exchanged teasing kisses as they made their way the few feet across the room.  Illya rubbed the pad of his thumb across one of Napoleon’s nipples as his other hand buried itself in his hair.  He felt the similar pressure of his lover’s hand against the back of his head, drawing him closer for a deep, probing kiss. 

He felt the mattress against his back, the cool sheets a shock to the heat of his body.  Napoleon’s familiar weight settled over him and he arched up instinctively.  The first glide of cock against cock dragged a low moan from them both. 

“Patience?” Illya rasped as his mouth latched onto Napoleon’s taut neck and his nails dug into his shoulders. 

“Compromise.  Less hurried?” Napoleon breathed as he ran his hand down Illya’s thigh. 

Illya dragged in a shaky breath and tried to concentrate on anything but the pounding of his blood.  Napoleon’s hand.  It was stroking along his knee; hardly an erotic act.  A calming motion.  He took a few more steadying breaths, bringing himself under control.  He stretched out his leg, laying it on top of Napoleon’s and slowly trailed it up the backs of his legs to rest at the curve of his lover’s ass.  He smiled lazily.  “Less hurried,” he repeated, “If you think you can.” 

One corner of Napoleon’s mouth lifted in a smile, and there was a mischievous twinkle in his hazel eyes.  “I know I can,” he declared softly as he bent to mouth a helpless nipple. 

A sharp moan was wrung from him as Napoleon began to rock gently against him, rubbing their cocks together.  It was definitely pleasurable, but it wasn’t enough.  He needed more.  He raked his nails down his lover’s back and tightened his leg around Napoleon’s in retaliation. 

Stars swam before Illya’s eyes as Napoleon’s teeth broke the skin of his shoulder.  One word penetrated the haze of arousal, “Patience.” 

Patience…patience…how could Napoleon even concentrate, let alone order him around!  Didn’t he have the same spiral of emotions coursing through his body?  Wasn’t the blood pounding through his veins?  His hands slipped down Napoleon’s back to curve around his ass, his fingertips brushing along the cleft. 

Napoleon’s breath hitched and his rhythm faltered as Illya launched an assault on his lover’s weaknesses.  Illya drew his tongue along his lover’s neck and murmured, “Patience,” as one finger probed the small opening.  He sucked behind Napoleon’s ear, mouthing along the stubbled jaw. 

A soft, demanding, yielding groan near his ear caused an immediate firing of his blood.  His hands slid quickly up Napoleon’s back to tangle in the shock of dark hair.  He savagely attacked those infuriating lips, easing the pressure gradually to a light touch.  He arched into Napoleon’s movements, which had grown erratic.  He murmured, “I want you inside me.”

“Mm,” Napoleon answered as he kissed him again. 

“Napoleon,” he muttered against his lover’s lips.  “Napasha.  Inside.” 

“Yes,” Napoleon answered huskily as he kissed down Illya’s throat. 

Illya shifted until he could stretch his leg out, and Napoleon eased into the place between his thighs.  He tucked his legs up and Napoleon’s cock slid along the cleft in his ass.  They locked gazes as the tip of Napoleon’s cock pushed at his entrance, more said in that look than any words that had been spoken that night.  His hands gripped Napoleon’s shoulders as he was slowly filled, his lover’s harsh breathing echoing loudly in the room.  

They lay quietly, finally joined, and Napoleon brushed lightly at his lips.  “Ready, Illusha?” he whispered.  

“Yesss,” he moaned softly as he threw his head back.  The intensity he felt always shocked him, filled and stretched by his lover.  He knew the feelings were just as intense for Napoleon, but there was something wild in the giving of himself to his lover.  The trust it spoke of between them.  The love. 

The overwhelming need to feel all of Napoleon consumed him.  He rocked his hips, pulling his lover in deeper.  His hands slipped along Napoleon’s sweat-slicked skin, trying to bring him even closer.  Yet the desperate clawing of his hands over that darkened skin was nothing compared to the heat his mouth encountered.  He tried to crawl inside of Napoleon, his tongue bathing every inch of his mouth. 

Napoleon suddenly wrenched away from him, pleading with his eyes for breathing room.  Illya couldn’t stop the rocking of his hips, but he restrained himself from hindering his lover’s air passages.  He contended himself by licking and nipping at the skin within his reach; a shoulder, a collarbone or two, and that luscious neck. 

Napoleon’s hips began to move, gently at first, then with more force.  He stopped licking and just rested his mouth against Napoleon’s skin as pleasure rippled through him.  He let the sensations wash over him, drowning him, until he was only aware of their two bodies and the place where they joined.  

“Look at me,” Napoleon ordered quietly as he kissed him lightly.

The statement brought Illya back from the edge of consciousness.  He focused passion-heavy eyes on his lover, finding an answering heat in their depths.  He kept Napoleon’s gaze as his hips met his lover’s thrust for thrust.  Their mouths made the lightest contact, kisses growing more demanding as their bodies became more in tune.  Napoleon curled over his body, his stomach stroking his own neglected cock. 

Illya licked and sucked the sweaty skin of Napoleon’s collarbone, one of the few bits of flesh he could reach.  Each thrust hit deep inside him, and every withdrawal stroked his cock.  His entire body was trembling on the edge of orgasm, and as if Napoleon sensed it, his lover shifted his mouth and nipped his earlobe.  He came with a shout, his body melting into a mass of nerve endings until there was nothing left. 

Napoleon sank deeply into him one last time, shuddering and groaning with his climax. 

Napoleon was heavy.  It was the first thing he was dimly aware of, besides the sticky mess covering his chest.  He ran his fingers through the dark hair, brushing it off Napoleon’s forehead as he whispered, “Have you fallen asleep already?”

 “Almost,” was the mumbled reply. 

He grinned sleepily as Napoleon raised his head.  “Next time, patience?”

“We’ll see,” he replied non-committally. Napoleon settled back down on his chest, and he shifted to get comfortable and turned his head to the side…and noticed the jar on the nightstand.  He raised an eyebrow at the contents; honey?  Napoleon had intended to pour honey on him? 

“We’ll see,” he murmured as he drifted to satiated sleep. 

The end

 


End file.
